


Territorialism

by Iriascend



Series: Omega Robins [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: A / B / O, Alpha Damian Wayne, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne-centric, Domestic Fluff, Family Bonding, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, MO is make it up as we go, No outlines we die like inspired idiots, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dick Grayson, Omega Jason Todd, Omega Tim Drake, Omega Verse, Overprotective Damian Wayne, POV Damian Wayne, Puberty, Rated For Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriascend/pseuds/Iriascend
Summary: Puberty is hell for a young alpha, especially when you have three older brothers.Three older OMEGAN brothers.------Completely SFW fluff of Damian dealing with his overprotective instincts and bonding with his older brothers :)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Omega Robins [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862638
Comments: 54
Kudos: 774





	1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> The same universe as the previous work in the series but can absolutely be read as a stand-alone.

“It’s so nice of you to take me out for pancakes. And to my favorite spot, no less!”

“It is your birthday, Richard. It would be unbecoming of a Wayne to not celebrate such an occasion in a fitting manner.”

Dick smiled and then chuckled lightly, wiggling in his seat excitedly. The kid was adorable in his efforts to sound like he _didn’t_ care when he obviously cared very, very much.

“If you wanted, you could have any purchasable article in the world," Damian continued. "Therefore, I concluded giving you my _time_ in the form of _bonding_ that you so desperately crave and often demand would be the only appropriate birthday gift.”

He bit his lip, smiling even more, then put his hand on Damian’s briefly. He would’ve hugged the kid then and there, but there was a table between them. 

“It’s all I could’ve asked for.”

Damian eyed him for a moment, then smirked ironically. “Except for the new gym equipment you almost begged Father to agree to.”

Dick snorted, trying not to laugh too loud in a public place. “Fair,” he said, “I am a sucker for only two things: family and acrobatics.”

“And cereal, and pancakes, and—”

“Okay, okay! I’ve got many weak spots and things I can be bribed with. No need to list them all, especially when you’re one of them.”

Damian started back the _tiniest_ bit, in an almost successful attempt to hide how Dick’s words shocked him.

“Me? Why would I be—”

“Because you’re family, Damian.”

“Oh. Right.”

If anyone was unsure if Damian really was an alpha in the making, the way he couldn’t even _fathom_ the omegan way of pack-first thinking would be enough proof.

Dick grinned and waved an inviting hello at the waitress approaching them with two plates of fresh pancakes. Buckwheat with blueberries, drowning in syrup, for him, and normal wheat ones with a modest side of whipped cream and strawberries for Damian. Soon, next to the plates stood two steaming cups of fancy tea.

The waitress blushed ever-so-slightly and smiled at Dick, then wished them a pleasant meal before walking away to her other tables. Damian squinted his eyes at her suspiciously but said nothing. Dick almost didn’t pay attention to it. It was a very _Damian_ thing to do, after all.

When Damian made his signature annoyed clicking noise at the waitress as she approached them again, offering more syrup if they ran out of it, Dick simply assumed the kid felt excluded, since his pancakes didn’t have syrup. 

When she came to gather the plates after they finished up their meals and check if they enjoyed the pancakes, Damian scoffed at her and coldly barked out a dismissive response. It only prompted Dick to offer her an apologetic smile.

When a low, quiet growl came out of Damian’s throat as the girl asked them if they’d like another tea since their cups were empty, Dick couldn’t stay silent anymore.

“What’s _wrong_ with you today?” he asked quietly as soon as the waitress left them, his tone accusatory but quiet and level. He stared Damian down, but the boy just scoffed. “I thought you wanted to have a nice morning with me, but instead you’re acting like you want to _bite_ the poor girl.”

“It’s not my fault,” Damian replied promptly, sounding just a little bit offended, “that she can’t see she is aiming _way_ out of her league.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t you notice?” the boy seemed honestly surprised that they weren’t on the same page. 

“No, I apparently didn’t.” Dick leaned back in his chair, eyeing Damian, waiting for him to finally spill what was bothering him.

“She was obviously trying to flirt with you!” Damian scoffed again as if it was clear as day and he thought Dick was pulling his leg.

Richard looked at him for a moment, blinking. “Yeah? I mean I can’t blame her, I’m quite a sight, ain’t I,” he grinned mischievously and broadly gestured to himself as if illustrating his words. But Damian obviously wasn’t satisfied with Dick’s light-hearted approach, so he continued. “It’s nothing, really. The attention’s nice sometimes, and if not, I can handle myself, you know?” he smirked again and nodded at the young Wayne. Who if not the famous Nightwing, a vigilante and a cop with years of experience under his belt, as well as kind of a celebrity by proxy of being Bruce Wayne’s handsome eldest son, could deal with a little public attention? This was quite unnoticeable, too, as modest and shy as the waitress was about it, in comparison to what he was used to. She didn’t even try to give him her number!

“That is _not_ the point,” Damian crossed his arms over his chest, now clearly annoyed by how Richard was handling the situation. 

“What _is_ your point, then?” Dick rolled his eyes and sighed. Sometimes, the kid could be so difficult, and he regretted that one of those times had to be during such a nice birthday morning. 

An awkward silence fell between them, not because Damian refused to answer, but because he couldn’t seem to find the right way to phrase it, frowning now and then. It wasn’t often that Damian was at a loss for words, so Dick leaned back in, a little worried. 

“Hey, Dami, really, what’s up? What’s bothering you?”

Damian bit his lip and grimaced, but finally answered.

“She should know her place. Not just _anybody_ can date one of us. ”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Oh? How is that?”

Damian scoffed and frowned again as if Dick asked another obvious question. 

“Father would _never_ allow someone like that into the family! You’re too good for the likes of her.”

Richard sighed heavily again.

“Hate to break it to you, Dami, but Bruce doesn’t get to decide who I can or cannot date,” he said, suddenly tired, deflating to lean back on his chair again. He hated these kinds of topics, and he’d quite literally give anything to avoid them. Especially on his birthday. And while he expected these talks from B, getting one by proxy of Damian was a rather unforeseen, and quite unpleasant turn of events. He had enough problems with _one_ overbearing alpha, he didn’t need a second mini ver— 

And then it struck him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he leaned back in again, and looked Damian straight in the eyes. “You’re not picking up Bruce’s pack-controlling behaviors, are you?”

“Father _isn’t_ controlling!” the boy answered immediately, quite unlike himself, in a pitch of voice a little too high to be natural. “He simply has the best interest of all of us in mind.”

Richard covered his mouth, torn between the urge to laugh and to sigh in defeat. It seemed adorable _now,_ to see a young little alpha trying to assert his dominance, but it would be annoying at least, and absolutely unbearable at worst in the future. Similar things can — and already had in the past — drive a wedge between the members of their family. And not only once.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. The adorableness of Damian being _protective_ over him was slightly off-setting the horror of another Wayne trying to dictate how he should live his life, but _only_ a little. “We need to get you a better alpha role model.”

Damian growled at him. “Don’t you dare insult Father like that.”

“You _do_ remember how you hated when he told you you can’t go out with him, back in the day?”

“Of course, but that’s beside— That’s exactly your point isn’t it.”

Dick nodded, proud of the boy to catch on so quickly. Son of Batman alright.

“So you can agree he isn’t perfect, can’t you.”

Damian pouted as if admitting it was something rather difficult. “He doesn’t have… all perspectives, fine, yes.”

“And neither have you.”

“I know, but— “

“No, Damian. Your brain is flooded with hormones right now and is telling you desperately that you need to keep your pack in check like a good little alpha, but I assure you. You’re more than just your instincts.”

“I know that!”

“And I’m more than just a helpless omega in your pack that needs to be told what to do and protected because I don’t know better, aren’t I?”

“Of course.”

“Then stop acting like every person that smiles at me is a potential threat that I won’t be able to handle like the poor little omega I am, and my brave five-foot-four alpha needs to keep me safe.”

“That’s not— “

“It’s exactly what’s going through your mind, Damian. I know because I’ve had this conversation with Bruce already, a long time ago, just he was slightly older, slightly bigger, and slightly more dense about it. And I ended up moving out because of it.”

Damian looked down, frowning. Then he mumbled something, but Dick couldn’t quite catch it, so he scooted a little closer. “Say again?”

The boy was silent for a while, like saying it at all was difficult, let alone repeating it. Finally, he opened his mouth again and whispered, ever-so-slightly louder. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Dick smiled and put his hand over Damian’s. “I know, Dami,” he said warmly. “So let’s work to not get on each other’s nerves, okay?”

Damian nodded, and for a moment, there was silence between them again. But this time it wasn’t as awkward and heavy. “Do you want another cup of tea?”

He beamed, knowing it was Damian’s way of saying  _ sorry,  _ the only way that could by-pass the strict upbringing and steel sense of pride of that kid. He knew, and thus he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“With family? Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with some grammar corrections. Thank you [ZulieTheProgrammer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZulieTheProgrammer) for beta reading this! ❤︎


	2. Todd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** blood, injury, violence, guns.

Teaming up with Red Hood was not something Damian did often. It wasn’t the top of his most-hated team-ups (that place was permanently taken by Red Robin). But given how arrogant and dismissive the bulky man could be, he definitely got on his nerves and held a fairly high spot on the list. Todd’s only saving grace was the familiar way he understood Damian’s League of Assassins’ upbringing. How violence ran through their veins thanks to Al Ghuls, how their first instinct was to bare teeth and ask questions only once you taste blood, how it was better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both; to strive to be feared _even if_ you are loved. 

Not that either of them needed to worry about that part. They could never be anything else than figures of terror. Not with their pasts.

Robin sniffed the air and growled quietly. “The air smells off,” he said, looking expectantly at Hood. 

Todd took a breath in and shrugged. “No fresh blood or gunpowder.” Damian wasn’t sure how he could smell anything through his truly _atrocious_ helmet. He couldn’t explain what he felt was different in the foul odour of Gotham, so he didn’t press any further.

They hopped from rooftop to rooftop with all the grace of a hunting tiger, slowly making their way towards their target. Tonight’s objective was relatively simple: secure the weapons shipment that was meant to be distributed among Gotham’s gangs the following week. Red Robin found out about it, but had too many other cases on his hands and was also dealing with a minor concussion from one of his previous patrols — thus he had asked for someone else to tackle it. Red Hood volunteered immediately, and Father assigned Robin to the case, never happy to let someone work alone. Damian knew Todd could handle it on his own, especially as the case seemed pretty easy and straight-forward, with no big players behind it if their sources were correct. But he didn’t want to refuse Father’s request and Todd insisted on working on this one — obviously concerned about the damage the cheap guns would do to his precious Narrows — and so Robin ended up on a mission with Red Hood.

Damian clicked his tongue. He couldn’t understand the amount of thought Todd gave to a bunch of low-life strangers. 

Then he remembered one of Richard’s lectures about _saving the innocents_ and clicked his tongue again, this time irritated at himself instead. Shifting his thoughts the way Father and Richard told him to, wanted him to was… difficult. Lately even more so, his strengthening instincts very much in line with ‘bite first - ask questions later’ approach. 

He grappled to the next building and rolled once his feet touched the rooftop to bleed off excess momentum, stopping precisely at Hood’s side. Damian smirked, pleased by his own accuracy and grace, then looked up at Todd. The man was already eyeing the warehouse. Though he didn’t hold any binoculars to his face, Damian knew enough about Hood’s helmet to figure out he definitely had the capability to zoom in his vision installed in it. 

There was something off about the air around the warehouse, just like he sniffed out. Surprisingly enough, there were also people loitering around the premises. It didn’t look at all like the lull they expected.

But given their intel came from Red Robin, none of this really surprised him. They couldn’t be sure if it’s business as usual, or if something tipped the gangsters off and they were about to move the goods. Something was amiss if you asked him. They had to go in soon, but no approach seemed suitable. 

“Twenty goons, probably more inside,” Todd said quietly, then gave a low whistle, the sound only partially dulled by his helmet. On its own, one could be tempted to read the reaction as a display of fear, or at least hesitance. But Hood’s body said something else — he didn’t start back, second-guessing, didn’t even budge except for a slight cock of his hips as if he couldn’t stay still. Therefore Robin decided to read it as something between _delight_ at the upcoming chance to punch some gangsters, and being _reasonable_ about the possible hardships of the fight. Thirty to two was anything but favourable odds. “Seems something is goin’ on in there. They’re a bit frantic. Gotta hurry up if we wanna crash that party.”

He could feel Hood glancing at him even without seeing his eyes drifting to the side.

“I’m not going to stay behind,” Damian said with conviction. 

“I wasn’t gonna tell ya to. Jus’ worried B is gonna rip me a new one if I get his baby bat damaged.”

He huffed and diverted his attention to the warehouse. “I suggest I go in first from above and do reconnaissance. Then we will devise a suitable plan.”

Hood nodded toward the entrance of the warehouse, which slowly began to open. “Don’t think we got time for that.”

“What do you intend to do, then? Go in guns blazing?” Robin sneered, crossing his arms on his chest.

Technically, he couldn’t be sure the shit-eating grin _was_ there on Red Hood’s face because of the helmet, but he’d wager on it regardless. It was terribly _clear_ what expression he had when he turned his head to Damian and pulled one of his guns out of its holster.

“I’m willing to bet ten bucks you’re gonna get knocked out in the first five minutes, gremlin.” With that, Hood grappled to another building, then jumped into the warehouse through one of the windows, the sound of shattered glass alarming everyone inside it.

 _“Imbecile,”_ Damian mumbled to himself before following the older vigilante, landing gracefully on top of a truck parked in front of the building.

Red Hood turned out to be wrong. 

He handled outside with relative ease, most of the gangsters dispersing like cowards once the first few of them fell to his blows and one well-aimed batarang. He slipped inside through a side entrance. The men inside proved more tenacious than those outside, but he held his own there just fine, too. Even if only thanks to his agility, wit, and the fact that Hood attracted the criminals’ attention like Richard attracted inappropriate comments. 

Damian scowled and threw a batarang straight at a gunman trying to unjam his gun, causing him to drop the weapon. It was not his fault that the impact caused it to fire, straight through the skull of the criminal. He quickly changed positions, trying to stay in the comforting safety of the shadows, keeping tabs on where his partner was as well as any possible threats. Another throw, to the side this time, ricocheting off a crate and knocking the air out of another target. He jumped into action to finish him off, delivering a swift blow into the fallen man’s liver side, pain taking him out for Damian. Before he could hide again, someone stupidly attempted to attack him in close quarters, so he instinctively threw the man over his shoulder, the hit against the concrete floor knocking him out.

“Outside clear, inside three down,” he said off-handedly into the comms. 

“Seven,” came the reply, then another shot could be heard from somewhere in the warehouse, with the distinctive, heavy sound of a rubber bullet hitting flesh soon after it. “Make that eight! If you can’t keep up, at least cover the other entrance, brat.”

He hissed. That was _precisely_ the reason he hated working with Red Hood. He drew his katana and ran towards the commotion, ignoring Hood’s suggestion. He wasn’t in the position to give Robin _orders,_ so Robin wasn’t going to listen. 

Using the momentum of his charge, he cut through the dominant arm of one attacker, rendering it useless. Slammed the hilt against the temple of another that just had the misfortune of being in range for such a manoeuvre, and gave a kick towards yet another one. The kick left him unstable for a split moment, allowing one of his enemies to get a punch into his side, but it only enraged him more. He retaliated immediately with a broad cut across the chest, sending the goon tumbling back. 

Robin straightened himself out to survey his surroundings. A rubber bullet whooshed past his head, and he couldn’t help but wince, startled slightly by the sound. He was a trained assassin, but even for him, a bullet right by his ear was a little too close for comfort. He turned around and looked at Red Hood, frowning in anger. As he did, he heard a groan of pain, and then the dull thud of a body against the concrete floor behind his back. The bullet apparently hit someone that was attempting to jump Damian, instead getting him knocked out cold.

“Yer welcome, twerp!” sounded in his comms as Red Hood saluted him with one of his guns.

He knew there was a smirk under that idiotic helmet. He’d seen it way too many times. 

The same way he also knew the glint of a laser sight that danced in the middle of Hood’s forehead. 

Everything after that happened way too fast, and almost entirely on instinct. Damian wasn’t sure which instinct, though. Assassin training embedded into his body in the past? Or budding alpha awakening in his blood recently? 

It didn’t matter. The helmet protecting Hood’s stupid face wouldn’t stand _a chance_ against the sniper rifle clearly aimed at him. He could yell at him, and maybe, just _maybe_ Hood would move enough to divert the shot into his chest, instead. But the thick layer of kevlar body armor and Todd’s peculiarly strong build also meant _nothing_ when pierced by at least 150 grains of steel and lead at nearly 3 thousand feet per second. No, if Red Hood— if _one of his pack omegas_ was to survive, he had to move, and move fast.

Damian sprung to action, possibly tearing or at least straining a tendon or two in the process. He wasn’t entirely sure where from he suddenly got that much power; maybe he was fuelled by pure rage and determination at the sheer _audacity_ someone had, to target his pack like that! He didn’t really care where the strength came from or what was the price for it — only what he could use it for. He couldn’t feel pain — or anything, really — at that moment anyway.

He rammed himself into Todd’s abdomen with enough force to possibly bruise the man even through kevlar. He definitely heard his shoulder — rather than felt — dislocate with a distinctive, nasty _crack_. He didn’t stop. Flung his arms forward and up, to push the man off-balance, hoping he’d be fast enough to save his life.

Damian was anything but a religious person, raised with Grandfather as the only thing remotely close to _divinity_ and with power as the only value worth worshipping. But at that moment? He prayed. _Allah_ , he prayed, **begged** even, not entirely sure how to do it, _let it be enough._ _Let the commotion cause the sniper to miss, or at least hit something less vital than the dead center of Todd’s head. Let the enemy hesitate for a second, enough to get Todd to safety. Let Todd live._

_Let it be enough._

It was. It was just _barely_ enough; Hood stumbled back, confused and surprised, Damian’s frame _tiny_ in comparison to the omega, and yet _somehow_ managing to send him toppling back. His ass hit the floor in precisely the same moment the air echoed with the loud, booming sound of a sniper round being shot. After that, for a moment, everyone and everything went silent. Even the subtle clink of the rifle being reloaded didn’t come, to Damian’s surprise. 

Todd started screaming, possibly at Damian, and it sounded _angry_ and nearly _feral_ , but not _hurt_. It reassured Robin that his pack omega was safe and he could focus on neutralizing the threat now. 

He smirked, grabbed a batarang. Didn’t even aim, just threw it blindly in the general direction from where the shot came. Maybe his prayers had been answered (it mattered not by whom), maybe his body reached its peak capabilities. Either way, he knew that some kind of power was with him. He didn’t need to aim. Low creatures like that gunman would fall before him anyway. 

It was odd that he did it all with just one arm, though, one whole side of his body feeling frozen in place. So he looked curiously at his other arm. Or, rather, what was left of it. 

That’s exactly what a sniper round would do to Todd’s head, he mused, looking at the bits of flesh and bone sticking randomly out of the remains of his forearm. It looked like it barely held together thanks to the scraps of his reinforced gauntlet. It was weird that he couldn’t really feel pain at that moment, not yet at least. Must’ve been the adrenaline and shock. 

Red Hood stood up and pushed him behind a crate, into cover, and Robin didn’t oppose. He just stared, in fascination and with absent eyes, at the blood gushing out of his wound. The world slowed down. His thoughts slowed down. He didn’t even look at what the furious, six-feet-two-hundred-pounds wall of muscle pumped with protective omega instincts did to all the remaining criminals on site. It was probably something terrible.

He grinned at the thought. They deserved it for trying to hurt his pack. _Their_ pack.

“Robin? Report! What happened? Robin, answer me!” the sound spilling out of the comms in his ear finally registered. It wasn’t Hood, but instead the frantic shouts of many voices. They must’ve heard Todd’s primal screaming, or just the general chaos that happened, or maybe something else tipped them off.

“Man down,” he said to everyone who would listen in on their frequency, weirdly calm. He didn’t hear the response, but there definitely was one. The world started to go dark and cold and he embraced it.

Red Hood turned out to be wrong. 

Damian was sure, as he felt the concrete floor welcome his numb body, that he lasted way longer than five minutes.

He came to and immediately winced and hissed in pain. There was an IV slowly dripping what he could only assume was morphine directly into his bloodstream, and still, it wasn’t enough. His arm was made of pure fire and a million needles and a billion razor-sharp shards of glass, pounding mercilessly with each thump of his heartbeat.

Damian allowed himself to groan, loudly and without restraint. He deserved it. He protected his pack. All this pain was worth it. He had no regrets.

Once he made a sound and gave any sign of life, there immediately was movement next to his bed. His sight was blurry, the same as his thoughts. But he could definitely tell he was in his own bed, although surrounded by medical equipment, and the face now hanging over his was no other than Jason Todd.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Todd said viciously, anger dripping from his voice. Damian clicked his tongue — attempted to at least, because he still had very poor control over his body. “I told ya B would kill me if I got ya hurt.”

Damian hissed. He could definitely hiss reliably, so he did that. He had _opinions_ about Todd’s words, and hissing was a fitting sound to express them with.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!”

It didn’t seem like Todd expected an answer out of him. Damian took the time to slowly start gathering his thoughts. It seemed like he was unconscious for _quite_ some time. 

“D’ya realise what happened to you?! Do you know what happened t’yer arm?! It took one hella cover story and an entire goddamn team of surgeons and forty fucking hours to put it back together, and ya still might never recover!”

Something Damian didn’t expect to see, once his sight focused enough, were _tears_ in Todd’s… in _Jason’s_ eyes. He frowned.

“And why?! Why the fuck did you do that?!”

He coughed, sending a terrible shiver of pain through his whole body. Grimaced, waiting for it to subdue, then slowly, carefully, spoke.

“You’re my— “ It was difficult, his tongue still rather unruly and numb. “My pack. Nobody— nobody can hurt you.”

Those words dissipated all and every last trace of Jason’s anger. He stared at the boy, speechless. If Damian could process with enough clarity, he’d find the man’s ridiculously dilated in surprise, wide-open eyes a _hilarious_ sight. They both spoke nothing more for a good while, the silence in the room only punctuated with the piercing beeps of Damian’s life monitor. 

Eventually, Jason cleared his throat. He must’ve thought this all over, including Damian’s little _confession,_ and was ready to deliver his retaliation. Ready to try to bully Damian back into the position of a _pup,_ someone he as an omega would take care of. Of course he would. He’d never accept Damian as one of the alphas of the pack, not when he was still so young. Even if he proved himself. 

“If not for you, I’d be dead,” he said, with solemnity in his voice very unlike him. The word surprised Damian. That was clearly Jason’s way of saying ‘thank you for saving my life’, and Damian accepted it. Outward displays of emotion were for Richard, not for people from the League of Assassins, like the two of them.

A moment later, Jason’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Again.”

Humour. That was a joke, Damian realised. It could only mean they’ve reached a mutual understanding. Good. 

“-tt-” Damian eyed him, frowning in pretended displeasure. Then he tilted his chin up a bit (and with great effort) in a challenge and smirked, too. ”You’re welcome, twerp.”

Jason was caught off-guard for a split second, then erupted in laughter so powerful it felt like the walls were shaking.

Pack. They definitely were packmates now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explanation, as it might not be clear since the description is through Damian's POV, and the plot point won't be addressed further (they probably talk it out sometime after this chapter but it won't really fit the next one).  
> The warehouse was a trap, aimed to take out Red Hood. They fell for it because they trusted RR's intel about it being some small fries, and RR fell for it because even he has limits, and those are: sleep deprivation, overworking, concussion and approaching heat, all at once.  
> \---  
> Updated with some grammar corrections. Thank you [ZulieTheProgrammer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZulieTheProgrammer) for beta reading this! ❤︎


	3. Drake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The length of the chapter is directly proportional to the number of issues Damian has with the other person, apparently.

Damian was about ready to scale the walls at this point. Having one’s arm immobilised for any amount of time was uncomfortable for anyone. Having it immobilized for a couple of _months_ was annoying, to say the least. Having it immobilized after a good couple weeks of being bed-bound? Tragic. But all that, for someone who is not only extremely active, day and night, but has also started getting hormonal surges telling him to _go and do things_ was, Damian mused, akin to torture. And he, as someone from the League, would _know_ what real torture could be.

He was banned from doing pretty much any physical activity. Of course, at first he ignored this, and trained as always, with the limitation of not being able to use both arms. The slight pain in his forearm as he moved his body dynamically was _nothing_ compared to some things he powered through during his training with Mother. But this wasn’t the League, and his current guardian wasn’t Mother. Sneaking into the Cave to train nearly got him banned from it; they kept keeping him controlled like a helpless pup. Pennyworth almost made Father remove him from the list of identities allowed to enter the Cave, which would mean the intruder alert and lockdown would sound if he got down there. If that happened, he wouldn’t be able to listen in to their patrols, and he absolutely couldn’t let that become reality. He needed to stay on top of things, at least this way. He _needed to._ If he didn’t, and fell out of the loop for as long as the recovery process seemed to be, coming back to active duty would be impossibly hard. Even for him. 

So, all in all, this injury _was the worst thing to happen to him so far._ And that’s something coming from a boy literally raised by assassins working under the Demon’s Head.

The only possibly good thing that came out of this entire thing was that he taught himself to be nearly perfectly ambidextrous in the meantime. He had no other choice — his dominant arm was injured severely and hidden under layers upon layers of cast and bandages. His art was _atrocious_ at first, but he persevered. Otherwise, stripped of both physical and creative outlets for all his inner turmoil, he would go _insane._ And nobody wanted another insane Al Ghul. Grandfather was definitely enough.

Instead, he just ran out of space. Every inch of his room was covered in piles upon piles of paintings and sketches. He couldn’t put in another canvas if he tried. Those he deemed adequate for public view, Damian had started storing in the library at some point, but that only got Pennyworth to remind him about _things having their designated places_ , which was his way of saying _get them out of here or so help me god I have enough weird knacks on display to dust already in this house._ Which was, Damian mused, very fair, and the last thing he wanted to do was to give the butler more work, or, worse even, get on his bad side. 

So he gave some of his art away to various ‘friends and family’, and convinced Father to put some up on the walls of Manor. He even pondered putting them in the Cave, but scrapped the concept, because he could as well throw them out with how damp and accident-prone the place tended to be.

He tried all of his ideas so far not to die of boredom.

And still the only thing he achieved was running out of space. 

“Maybe you could hold an art show, Master Damian?” suggested Pennyworth during one breakfast, seeing Damian sitting at the kitchen table with a bitter expression. His beta scent was ripe with concern, more pronounced than usual, and Damian couldn’t help but bristle at how patronizing it felt. “The galleries have plenty of room for new, aspiring artists. I’m also sure someone would love to purchase one of your paintings, too.”

And yet, despite not wanting to admit it, Damian knew Pennyworth, bless his elderly soul, was, as always, right. Even if nobody in the entire Bristol area could understand his artistic genius, at the very least the gallery would have to keep the paintings for a while. Then he’d figure out what to do with them once they got sent back.

He wasn’t proud of himself for simply aiming to push the problem further into the future, but his sanity had been pulled thin and he was now willing to latch onto _any_ solution.

That’s how, a week later, Damian stood in a modern-looking room, dressed in a proper suit and rocking on the balls of his feet in anticipation. He knew he looked appropriately professional, like the Wayne heir he was, but he also knew his smell would give his internal turmoil away. The fact that he would, had he had less self-control over his limbs, be trembling with anxiety and excitement, did not help him look composed. He had yet to master the art of subduing his emotions enough for them to remain hidden not only on his face or in body language, but also in his scent. 

But who could blame him? It was a big deal. It took a dozen meetings at various art galleries (only this one seemed to understand what an honour it would be to display his art) to get this going, but he made it. Sure, he could’ve just… paid for them to display his works. But he wanted to be recognised. As an artist, not as a rich kid. He wanted to earn his place because he was just that good, not because he could get it easy. And he did — they recognised him as an artist before his surname clicked in their minds. That… that felt good and he craved that validation, even if he would never admit it in any way, shape, or form.

So he stood there, waiting. The walls were filled with his art, and yet, somehow, Damian was filled with anxiety and anticipation unlike any time before. These past days, he made a nearly infinite amount of calls and sent so many texts he couldn’t remember the number, informing anybody he remotely cared about that he would have his art on display. For the first time. He wanted to see his Father proud of his accomplishments, and he couldn’t accomplish much while benched. So maybe Father would appreciate this alternative kind of achievement. 

Damian hoped he would. That everyone would.

The clock on the wall eventually hit the full hour and the exhibition was officially open, but nobody except him was there. So he waited. Five minutes, then fifteen. At that point, even he could smell his own nervousness in the air, thick and heavy. He regretted not stealing a scent-blocking patch from the Cave earlier like he contemplated yesterday. 

Finally, after half an hour total, he decided to do a mental check. He should’ve done it before, but he was too anxious. It was stupid and superstitious to think so, but he was worried he’d jinx it, somehow. He internally berated himself for giving in to these feelings. 

So, first off, Jon would not be there because he was ill. That was understandable. His parents would not let him go all the way to Gotham while sick, and Jon was a goody-two-shoes who rarely went against his parents (without sufficient pressure from Damian, that is). But Jon was also not much of an art connoisseur, anyway. No big loss. 

Then, his Titans were busy. When Damian got benched, he also got excluded from _their_ missions, and it just so happened that they were tangled up in a stealth operation somewhere at this time. He only figured that out by revising the case files after his calls bounced off. He fully expected to be mocked when they finally receive his messages and realize that he forgot what they were doing. Dealing with the ridicule was a problem for future Damian, though.

Todd was busy with a stakeout. It was improbable he’d be free to visit tonight during the opening, but he promised to drop by some other time, if his plans allowed. That wasn’t… ideal, but Damian could accept it. The chance to cut into Intergang’s supply chain (if Todd’s intel proved to be correct) doesn’t come often and it’d be shameful to waste it. 

Richard had called thirty minutes before the opening time, apologising profusely, saying he had to do overtime at his police station and there’s no way he can get there in time from Blüdhaven. He swore he’d make it up to Damian, and Damian agreed, threatening physical harm if he failed to keep his promise, but in reality, he was just… disappointed. He didn’t believe Richard Grayson couldn’t wiggle out of doing overtime if he really wanted badly enough. It must’ve meant he deemed overtime more important than Damian.

Similarly, he knew Father had planned to attend some kind of charity event today, but… but he thought… Damian thought— He was wrong, it seemed, judging by Father’s apparent absence. Of course, if _even Richard_ put work over this exhibition, then surely Father would also. Damian was stupid for thinking otherwise. For thinking they’d — the most dedicated vigilantes in the world — put _familial ties_ above their jobs, their duties. 

He swallowed the angry, betrayed growl before it could even sound in his throat. Mother would be _disappointed_ in him if he became angry over something so perfectly _obvious_ and _appropriate._

Then there was Pennyworth. He definitely knew about the exhibition — though Damian only then realised he failed to invite the elder directly (a blunder he’ll have to own up to later), Pennyworth suggested this himself, and there wasn’t anything that happened in the Manor that would elude the butler. He would— he should definitely be here. Did something happen to him? Or did truly nobody—

The doors creaked and Damian looked up, a little startled, full of hope, the change immediately noticeable as a fresher, citrusy note, poking through the heavy odour of his scent filling the room. Through the threshold came in possibly the last person the boy expected, though, and his hope immediately turned into confusion. And a little hostility.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he barked out, barely containing his disapproval. Why was Drake there? How did he know about the exhibition? Damian made a point of _not_ informing him.

Drake walked a couple of steps inside and put his hands into his pockets. The gesture could be subconscious, but Damian concluded it was a ploy to hide the way Drake surveyed the room, sniffed the air, and furrowed his brows for a split second. 

“Dick told me you have an exhibition?” 

Damian growled quietly as an instinctive response. The older vigilante didn’t even raise an eyebrow at that, seemingly not fazed by the intense _angry-displeased-annoyed_ in the air; it was Damian’s usual smell around him, after all, more often than not accompanied by Damian having to hold back from baring his teeth at him. He must’ve gotten used to it. The fact that Drake’s own smell was flat and devoid of wariness (beyond the usual subtone of vigilance that every Bat learned to have, and to conceal, too) only bothered Damian even more. Drake should remember his place, he thought, remember to fear and hold in high regard the true Son of Batman. 

To show his disdain, Damian clicked his tongue in irritation and looked away, chin high up in the air, as he gestured to his artworks around them. “Obviously.” 

It explained nothing. Drake could as well hack into Damian’s phone or the gallery’s internal database and extract the information from there. Just _knowing_ about it did not mandate Drake to _come_ and _that_ was the mystery he needed answers for. 

“Can I look around?” Drake asked. Damian just shrugged in response, frowning. 

The older boy smiled inexplicably and nonchalantly pushed a lock of hair out of his face, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. His temperate scent explained nothing, and to be in this state of uncertainty right after a bout of deep anxiety drove Damian _mad._ In an attempt to reveal Drake’s true intentions, Damian started to analyze the man. He had nothing with him, no bag and nothing in his hands, possibly maybe his phone and wallet in the pockets of his trousers. He looked mussed and tired, as always, but his clothes _could’ve_ been a proper 3-piece suit at some point of the day (or _week)_ so Damian concluded he came here straight from his office job at Wayne Enterprises. And since Damian knew Red Robin was out in the field until dawn last night, it meant Drake was here on zero sleep, after wrangling employees and data reports for hours, possibly running on nothing but coffee and sheer determination. Just to see Damian’s art?

The realisation, was, to say the least, a bit perplexing. Why would Drake do that? He didn’t like art — didn’t display any prior interest, anyway — and he didn’t like Damian, either. _Why was he here?_

He caught up to Drake who slowly made his way from one painting to another along the wall. “Did Richard request you to come in his stead?” Damian asked, too curious, too unnerved by the conundrum at hand to let the silence linger. His scent continued to betray him, growing more and more heavy with doubt every moment. 

“Dick’s not coming?” was Drake’s reply, followed by a surprised frown and a slight _worry_ emanating from him, but not remotely strong enough to poke through Damian’s own thick, angry-alpha-during-puberty scent. Then, when no explanation about Dick’s whereabouts came, he shrugged, probably assuming (correctly) it wasn’t his place to ask. ”No, he just let me know about the opening, like… three days ago.”

Damian could, of course, just outrightly ask Drake what he was doing here, but that would be simply running straight into whatever trap Red Robin had prepared. He had to be cautious. And thus, he just eyed him from a couple of feet away as the other boy tilted his head and made quiet murmurs at the displayed art, one piece after another. 

He was alert and cautious and focused. He could take on whatever scheme Drake had devised and turn it around. When his enemy would make his move, Damian would be ready. 

Half an hour later, the strike came. Damian was not, in fact, ready. He got distracted by the quiet noises of appreciation Drake made — no words were exchanged, of course, they didn’t talk; but with gestures and humming the older boy displayed some genuine admiration, and gave special heed to a couple specifics, muttering to himself about ‘good composition’ or ‘nice theme’ like he knew what he was talking about. That threw Damian off enough so that when Drake actually addressed him properly, he could only glare at him for a good moment, stunned.

“This one,” Drake pointed at a painting he had paid more attention before, and now had returned to. He apparently took a good look at all the pieces displayed already and decided something. “How much?”

“What are you on about, Drake?” Damian said incredulously when he finally got ahold of himself.

Red Robin just arched one of his eyebrows, an expression he no doubt learned from Pennyworth. 

“How much do you want for it? I know money means very little to both of us, but I doubt you’d give it to me for free.”

He blinked rapidly, staring at Drake for half a second too long for his liking.

“What would _you_ need it for?”

The painting in question was one of the more… uninspired ones. A practice piece, Damian would even say, but good enough in terms of technique. It depicted the rear grounds of Wayne Manor, including Pennyworth’s prized rose patch. The only unusual thing about it was, maybe, that the landscape was portrayed at night, with dark clouds obscuring most of the barely-there stars, and faint moonlight being the only light to bring out the faded colors of the illustrated greenery. 

“Wanted to put it up in my office at WE,” Drake shrugged, but there was something stiff about the gesture that suggested a half-truth. He eyed Damian, rubbed the scent gland on his wrist a little nervously, and then continued with a sigh, possibly understanding that his mannerisms betrayed the incompleteness of his explanation. “It looks a little like the view I have from my room in the Manor.”

And when Damian didn’t say anything to that — too astonished, honestly, still processing that revelation — he shrugged and added, “At times, I’m getting a little… let’s call it home-sick, when I stay so long at the office.”

It took Damian a good moment to comprehend that Drake did genuinely desire to possess that particular painting. Whether his reasoning aligned with what he said was to be analyzed later, even if everything seemed to check out. He did spend a lot of time at the office and a reminder of _home_ was proven to alleviate stress. Damian knew of it personally, clinging stubbornly to the blades he had brought with him that were Mother’s gifts. But the issue at hand that Damian really couldn’t wrap his mind around was _why would Drake want to be reminded of the Manor by Damian’s painting?_

Most people were appreciative when he bestowed his art upon them, but as with most uninvited gifts, also a little awkward. There had been maybe one or two paintings, mostly in the first years after he came to Gotham, that Father and Pennyworth had requested to be put up on the walls of the Manor out of their own volition. He suspected it was more of a sign of care about _Damian_ than Damian’s _art_ anyway, so maybe even those did not count. Other than that, people’s interest in — let alone desire to _have_ — his art was mostly polite and out of social cues. It was obvious, especially with how nobody showed up at this exhibition.

Nobody but Drake, who wasn’t even invited to begin with. 

Not wanting to show how confused he was, not wanting to fall for Drake’s trap (whatever it was) any more than he already had, Damian frowned and clicked his tongue.

“I’ll consider your request,” he rolled his eyes, pretending to be inconvenienced by Drake’s demand. “Maybe acquiring fine art could offset your absolute lack of _class_ and return a little bit of the respect that the Waynes have lost in the eyes of our employees due to your— ” and to illustrate his point, he gestured to the _entirety_ of how Drake looked like at that moment.

“I think Master Timothy looks just fine for someone who _hadn’t been in bed for over forty hours,”_ came from the side suddenly, and both their heads snapped towards the source of the sound. Pennyworth stood there, somehow managing to both look _reassuring_ towards Drake’s ability to ‘uphold the Wayne reputation’ and _disappointed_ at Drake’s lack of self-care.

Damian pondered for a moment how it was possible neither of them had noticed his approach. Pennyworth had the uncanny ability to move silently, yes, but he usually refused to wear scent-blockers and that was mostly enough to tip Damian off about his approach. Was Damian so engrossed in trying to figure Drake out that he forgot to take notice of his surroundings? Or was the beta level smell, similar to Drake’s, simply not strong enough to get through Damian’s cloud of mixed feelings and alert them he was close?

The called-out vigilante shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Hi, Alfred.”

“Welcome, Master Timothy. Master Damian—“ Pennyworth nodded in acknowledgement. “— I am terribly sorry for being late. The Manor’s gate malfunctioned and I could not drive the car out in the _normal_ way, so I had to take an unplanned _detour,”_ he said pointedly, and both of them immediately understood what he meant by that. The poor butler had to navigate a civilian car out the Batcave somehow without tipping anyone off. Sure was something that excused him being a bit late. “I had made attempts to contact you to inform you and apologise in advance, but— “

Damian reached into his blazer, eyes growing wide. He pulled out the phone and woke up the screen. Notifications about three missed calls from the elder, from about an hour and a half ago, displayed on the lock screen, and in the corner of it — the unmistakable indicator of the silent mode. In his anxiety, he must’ve not noticed the buzzing in his pocket. He frowned, dismayed and upset with his own mishap.

Drake smiled at the butler and started walking towards the front door. He probably assumed that now that Pennyworth was there, he was no longer welcome, and Damian could understand where the sentiment came from, even if he wasn’t — at that moment — as adamant in wanting Drake away from him as usual. “Think about it, Demon brat! I was serious!” he said over his shoulder, pushing the door open and leaving the two of them alone in the gallery. 

Damian frowned even more, but Pennyworth asked him a question about the exhibition, so he had no time to pay more attention to Drake’s exit. 

They saw each other again two weeks later. The exhibition had ended, and though in the meantime Father, Richard and Todd all had visited, even Brown and Cain managed to drop by — yet nobody made such a lasting impression as Drake did. 

That, and _only_ that was what caused Damian to actually go with Drake’s plea. He wanted a place for all of his artwork anyway, right? As the Wayne heir, and with the assumed _blessing_ of the _acting CEO_ he could put them up on the walls of the WE building. 

And that was exactly what he was planning to do. 

Damian strutted into the building through the main entrance and headed straight for the elevator. He hadn’t even acknowledged the reception desk staff, instead opting to nod at the workers that followed him inside to signify they should handle it on their own. They had their instructions on where to hang his art up and the written orders from Damian Al Ghul-Wayne with them to carve their way through plebeians. Damian himself had more important matters to attend to.

The steel doors opened and aside from one confused worker stepping out of it, it was empty — just as Damian planned; he came in after the initial start-of-work rush but before lunchtime exactly so he could avoid crowds. Navigating them with the blocky painting _and_ his cast would be bothersome. He stepped into the glass elevator with the expertly wrapped painting snuggly held under his arm, scanned his access card and pressed the button for the floor where Drake’s office was situated. He assumed Drake would spend most of his time in meetings somewhere else, or even in the R&D department, but that was to Damian’s benefit anyway. He’d slip in, hang the painting in a suitable place, and be out without having to interact with the wretched failure of a man that was Drake. 

As the doors closed behind him, he could hear “Sir? Mister Wayne!” shouted in a slightly accusatory, slightly shocked manner by who he assumed was the receptionist or security guard. Damian paid it no mind, ~~even~~ especially when the shout was followed by a completely unprofessional, undignified _whine._ No inferior lowborn, and more so not one that couldn’t reign in their instincts, could stop him. He was _on a mission,_ for the first time in months, and he was going to _succeed._

Once out on the correct floor, Damian marched straight past Drake’s secretary. Her eyes widened in shock and she stood up and attempted to question him, maybe even stop him. Yet before she could make her way around her desk and towards him, he shut the doors and digitally-locked them with his card. He loved the fact that he managed to talk Father into giving him one that has nearly all-around access, _just in case._ They never knew when the Wayne heir, or better yet, the Robin would need to access some place in the Wayne Headquarters, right?

He turned around and surveyed the room. It was modern in decor, and that meant it was sad, gray and barren. Damian could understand minimalist interior design — it was the prevalent choice in the spartan conditions of most of the League quarters. But Grandfather knew how to use lavish decorations in moderation to emphasise his power. This? This wasn’t minimalist, this was… this was a high-end version of an abandoned parking lot. Absolutely no class. 

“As one would expect from Drake’s den,” he mused under his breath, clicking his tongue in displeasure. 

And then he barely contained his surprised yelp when Drake’s head slowly emerged from behind the set of giant monitors taking up nearly all top surface of the desk (the rest being covered in paperwork and coffee mugs and takeout boxes).

Drake’s brows went from being arched high in surprise to sliding down into a frown.

“... Damian?” he said, sounding utterly confused, but the scent in the room hadn’t changed. This time Damian was sure he was present and alert enough to smell any changes in the air. The conclusion was then simple: Drake was using scent blockers as a part of his everyday ensemble. Not as heavy-duty as the ones they used in costume, of course, but enough to mask most of his pheromonal reactions. According to Damian’s knowledge, that kind of long-term, continuous inhibition of scent glands (or any other physiological functions, for that matter) was harmful, unhealthy and frankly also slightly disgusting. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Damian pointed to the large bundled square under his arm, then put it down, leaning it onto a nearby potted plant. “Trying to fix the decor disaster that this place is.”

Drake opened his mouth like he wanted to reply, but before he could make a sound, the door swung ajar.

The first thing Damian thought at that moment was _are we being attacked_ and the answer was no — the person who came in was clearly an employee, and his body language showed he meant no bodily harm.

The second thing was _how did he unlock the door_ and the answer immediately appeared in Damian’s mind — this employee must have had a high enough access level on his card to override the one he had, which means he’s _important._

The third thing was _how dare you_ because the man completely ignored Damian and instead addressed Drake straight away.

“Drake, I need to talk with you about the budget for this quarter. It’s unacceptable.”

Damian frowned. Who was this person to talk to Drake like that?

“I’m busy, Evans, can’t-”

“I don’t care you need to update your Twitter or Instagram or whatever, Drake! You will solve this issue _right this instant,”_ the man raised his voice. Damian frowned and Drake sighed, probably already seeing the _terrible_ way in which the situation would escalate. At least in that, they could agree. “My department is criminally underfunded!”

So, Damian gathered despite starting to see slightly red, this was an important senior employee. _Possibly_ head of one of the departments, at best. Someone _valued,_ but not remotely close to being _indispensable._

Honestly, this man’s gall surprised Damian. To address your superior — whatever Damian himself thought about Drake, he _was_ the acting CEO and thus the higher-up of this man — in that way would be met with swift death back in the League. Even with Father’s more lenient approach and the weird way the Western civilisation functioned, this _had to_ be wildly inappropriate behaviour. He would _not_ let ~~his packmate~~ someone representing the Waynes be treated like that!

“I’ve scheduled you a meeting with-”

“I know what Accounting will try to tell me! That the budget was approved and there’s no wiggle room and that’s why I don’t _need_ that meeting! What I need is _you_ to fix this! It’s unacceptable!”

Drake sighed again, and Damian finally snapped, hearing the man yell.

“Shut up,” he ordered, bringing forth every ounce of training he had ever gotten from Mother, every authoritative way of speaking he learned from Father, and any budding alpha voice he could muster. Following the words, a wave of angry scent must’ve hit the man because he wrinkled his nose in response. Nobody talks to _a member of the Wayne pack_ like he did and gets away with it. Damian felt fully excused in being outwardly angry like that. “Do you know who you’re talking to?! He’s Timothy Drake- _Wayne._ Your _boss._ Who taught you manners? If you were _my_ subordinate I’d have you— ” he almost said _skinned_ before remembering that’s not something that happens in America. Also, it would make Father mad, so he quickly tried to come up with an alternate punishment. “ — demoted for addressing your leader like that.”

He growled to emphasize his point. He could’ve not done that, possibly shouldn’t, but the slight shiver that ran across the man’s — Evans, yes? — back was worth the slight slip up in control of his instincts. 

“And who the hell are you? What are you even doing here?” Evans responded, frowning, finally acknowledging Damian’s presence in the room. His scent was weak (a beta, then?) and riddled with slight worry, but not nearly enough to Damian’s liking. “Don’t interrupt when an adult is talking! It’s not your place to speak, kid. ”

It did not escape Damian’s attention that Evans had used _singular ‘adult’_ as if he did not consider Drake one. Yes, legally, he was not yet fully an adult, but bringing that up in a professional setting like this signified the man did not know his proper place. Damian would happily remind him of it. 

“I’m Damian Wayne, you imbecile,” he said sharply, and the man’s eyes widened. He pushed Evans’ shoulder, making him take a couple stumbling steps back towards the door. With a swift move, he swiped his card over the lock and opened the door behind the man’s back. “And you’re fired.”

And with that, Damian pushed the man out the door, yanking the access card off Evans’ neck in the meantime.

For a moment after the door closed, everything was silent. Then an outraged shriek could be heard from outside, a bang or two on the unyielding door, and then angry stomping fading away.

Then Drake stood up briskly, pushing himself off his chair.

“You can’t just waltz in here and _fire_ people! That’s not how it works. I need him! Do you know what a specialist he is?!”

“Oh, so now you know how to talk back?” Damian snapped, and that made Drake’s eyes widen and his ass plop back down onto his chair like he hadn’t expected Damian to call him out on that. “You’re a disgrace for letting someone order you around like that. You’re a Wayne! Act like it! I know you’re an omega—” Drake opened his mouth to protest but Damian growled him into submission quickly, without even making a noticeable pause in his speech. He smirked, proud of the accomplishment. “— but this is unsuitable even for you.”

He approached the desk and reached for the scent blockers on the sides of Drake’s neck with the intention to rip them off. Drake must’ve once more been severely sleep-deprived because his reactions weren’t even near to being fast enough and Damian succeeded. Accepting his defeat apparently, Drake rubbed one of the now exposed scent glands, trying to ease the sting of the blocker coming off it so harshly. But the gesture caused his scent to come out stronger, helping Damian _finally_ ascertain Drake’s status fully.

He took a deep breath in, expecting subconsciously to smell the _soothing-pleading_ of an omegan packmate. What he got was entirely different.

The scent was a confusing mess, just like the man himself. _Worried-tired-confused-afraid-annoyed_ with a distinctive addition of coffee-bitter hit Damian’s nose and he couldn’t help but grimace at it. There was also a concerning hint of the sour smell of sickness mixed into it, and that made his frown deepen. Now that he looked closer, the glands were obviously slightly swollen, possibly inflamed. The discussion about Drake’s health and how it deteriorating could jeopardize Father’s vigilantism was for another time, though.

“You let them interrupt your work and talk to you like you’re nothing, you let them yell at you and you can’t even hold your own when you’re in a position of power! You’re supposed to be representing the Wayne clan! Our pack! I will not stand for others walking all over you.”

To Damian’s surprise, Drake’s face froze in surprise, and his scent suddenly levelled, leaving only the disgusting, artificial bitterness of coffee and sour sickness in its wake. 

“Wait, what?” 

“Are you daft or deaf? _I will not stand for others walking all over you,”_ Damian repeated, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Father insists on having you in this official position, even if you obviously can’t handle the duties associated with it. Not only you cannot take care of yourself— “ Damian gestured around to the mess on Drake’s desk, then towards the irritated gland and the bags under Drake’s eyes and the empty coffee cups and- Drake waved him off, signalling he _got the point_. “— but you also let your subordinates dominate you to the point that you _hide_ your scent, even if it negatively affects your health, in an attempt to not appear so submissive-”

“That is _not-”_

“I don’t care what you think your intentions are, Drake! The point is you are the weak link in the pack,” Damian scoffed and looked away, but it was difficult not to notice the sudden surge of sadness and fear in Drake’s scent, almost _primal_ in nature and thick enough for Damian to taste it on his tongue. His eyes narrowed. Did he hit a nerve? He will have to ~~figure out what he said wrong~~ investigate it. For... vengeance purposes. Yes. But for then, he decided to continue. “As such, until you learn to make a stand properly, I will manage your communications and interactions.”

Drake blinked slowly, the smell in the room slowly starting to somehow smell of _amusement_ instead. 

“You’re trying to stand guard for me,” he said flatly, but his eyes glimmered with barely held-in laughter. 

Damian didn’t understand what’s so funny about it, so he just arched an eyebrow. 

“You honestly got worried about me getting pushed around so badly that you decided to coop me like an alpha? That’s sweet, demon brat. _Weird,_ especially for you, but sweet. You’re sure you aren’t still high on painkillers?”

Then it slowly dawned him what Drake was saying. And as he looked back on his actions, mainly ever since he saw someone from outside the pack act angrily towards Drake, he realised there was at least a _grain of truth_ in Drake’s interpretation. And that— that he didn’t like. He didn’t like when Drake was right. 

“What?! I am not concerned about _your safety,_ only our pack’s reputation!” Damian snapped, trying to save his face, but his outraged tone somehow didn’t match his blushing cheeks. That caused Drake to snicker, and when Damian huffed in annoyance — like a child, no less — he launched into full-blown laughter. 

“I’m going to call Dick and tell him to pay more attention to his dating choices since you’re in such a protective mood,” he teased, leaning back on his chair. Damian screeched angrily but had no suitable response, so he just turned around and started stomping towards the door.

“Hey! At least put the painting up, huh?” Drake called after him, pointing to the canvas still propped against a plant, then added: “Please?”

His voice was keening and high, and his scent smooth and comforting, still lingering in Damian’s nose like a familiar weight. Damian didn’t know if he _liked_ that Drake finally acted like a proper omega, or _disliked_ that he knew how to and did, in fact, use his designation to his advantage, or was _angry_ that it somehow _worked_ on him _._

All he knew was that he would regret showing any kind of affection later but couldn’t help it. He threw ~~Drake~~ Timothy a dirty look over his shoulder and picked up the painting instead of walking out.

“You’re still a disgrace,” he mumbled, unwrapping the artwork, “but _our_ disgrace, I suppose.”

Timothy laughed again, then slunk back behind his screens to continue working, leaving Damian to his own devices. The ugly whiff of _fear_ and _worry_ in the omega’s scent slowly dissipated, replaced with mellow contentedness. Something in Damian’s chest felt proud at the fact that the packmate that just got yelled at and threatened and cornered, that was sick and exhausted — finally felt safe. 

He still hated him, of course, and he was sure the sentiment was mutual. But they didn’t have to _love_ one another to be family. They just had to trust and look out for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with some grammar corrections. Thank you [ZulieTheProgrammer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZulieTheProgrammer) for beta reading this! ❤︎


End file.
